The Bastard King (27 page)

There had been no word from Harold since his return.

‘Doubtless,' said William, ‘he is considering the vows he has made.'

‘And doubtless wishing he had not made them,' added Matilda.

‘He will know it is no use regretting what is done, though he will be cursing the day he was thrown up on our shores.'

‘He has got himself a doting little wife for his adventure. I wonder how he has explained that to the swan-necked lady and her bastards. I'll swear he promised his sons by her that they should follow him to the throne, bastards though they may be.'

‘It so happens that bastards sometimes inherit from their fathers.'

She laughed up at him. ‘With what excellent results we have seen. When you sail for England I shall follow all with the greatest interest. I have decided that the only way I can possess my soul in quiet is to work a tapestry of all that happens. I have started it here in Bayeux, which is the proper place to work it I think, because it was here that Harold swore his oath. I have had the shipwreck designed and his swearing of the oath and have started to work. It will keep me occupied; while you are doing great deeds I shall record them and in my own way contribute something.'

‘You have contributed already, my love. I often feel that without you I should have been but a pale shadow of myself.'

‘An admission, William of Normandy, of which I shall doubtless remind you from time to time.'

There came news from England.

There was trouble; and, as it had so often happened, this came through Tostig. Tostig was a man who could not be ignored; he was rebellious, hot-tempered but at the same time managed to be lovable. Matilda's sister Judith was his devoted wife; Tostig's own sister Editha, who was the Queen of England, loved him dearly and he was said to be her favourite brother; even the King, who appeared to have little deep feeling for any human being, favoured Tostig.

One who must regard him with some suspicion was Harold, for clearly an ambitious man such as Tostig would have his eye on all that Harold believed should be his.

Tostig would naturally be thinking of the crown of England.

He had ruled Northumberland for ten years; but he was not popular there. Tostig belonged to the south of England and northerners did not care for southerners. The north had felt more strongly the influence of the Danish invaders; the south was Saxon and Tostig was the grandson of a Saxon cowherd. This was held against him and his reaction was one of brutality. Determined to have his way, he was not a man to be crossed; he imposed heavy taxes on his people and they were constantly seeking a way of deposing him.

Tostig often absented himself from Northumberland and on one of these occasions rebellion broke out. The rebels were successful and declared Tostig an outlaw; they then invited Morcar, the younger brother of the Earl of Mercia, to become Earl of Northumberland.

Tostig immediately appealed to the King who hated being involved in trouble and who promptly offered the matter to Earl Harold to set right.

Tostig was all for war with Mercia but Harold cautioned him and suggested that the differences between Morcar and Tostig be talked over at the Witan. The result of this was that Morcar was declared Earl of Northumberland and Tostig exiled.

‘Traitor!' cried Tostig to his brother.

Harold wearily replied that this was the decision of the Witan and not his.

‘You incited my people to revolt against me,' declared Tostig.

‘Why should I?'

‘You know,' cried Tostig; but he dared not say that he and his brother were quarrelling over the crown of England while King Edward still lived.

There was nothing Tostig could do. He was branded as an outlaw, so with Judith and his family he left for the Court of Flanders to take refuge with his father-in-law.

‘So,' said William to Matilda, ‘your father has guests once more.'

‘I will ask Judith to come here,' replied Matilda. ‘I may discover from her what is going on at the King's Court.'

‘Here is a tangle,' said William. ‘For Tostig will know that Harold has sworn to stand aside for me.'

‘That makes three of you with your eyes on the crown,' said Matilda. ‘And Tostig has not sworn on the relics' bones.'

‘It is Harold whom I feared.'

‘And do no longer.'

‘I shall be watchful of that gentleman, never fear, until I am on the throne.'

The year 1066 was about to begin.

‘Why,' said William, ‘I remember the King of England told me that he was born at the turn of the century. He must be in his sixty-sixth year. He cannot live much longer.'

‘Judith writes to me from Flanders,' said Matilda. ‘She tells me that the King had always favoured her husband, and that the fact of his exile gave him great sorrow. He had aged in the last weeks before they left, according to Judith, and he was already an old man.'

‘His death is imminent,' said William. ‘I am certain of it.'

Christmas had passed and it was January. Winter was the time for the hunt. When the bushes were white with hoar frost the short days must be enjoyed to the full. Waiting was
tedious; there was nothing for breaking the tension like the joy of the hunt. Always it had been so with William; he liked to be in the midst of hunters with the dogs straining at their leashes, the horses pawing eagerly on the hard ground, the falcons waiting to pounce on their prey, to feel the keenness of the winter air – all this exhilarated him. For a few hours there was nothing but the hunting of the quarry. He ceased to think of what might be happening in King Edward's palace and whether Harold would attempt to break his vows.

The day before, one of his foresters had brought a bow to him, such a bow as he had not seen before.

‘Only a man of great strength could bend such a bow, my lord. Thus have I made it for you.'

He took the bow. He bent it to the applause of those who stood round. He would try it out the next day.

Others tried the bow. It seemed it would bend for none but William. He was in a good mood.

So now he was trying his bow in the forest while his followers looked on with admiration. The hunt was about to begin.

Young Robert and Richard were of the party. Never did William look on his eldest son without deploring the shortness of his legs. It was even apparent when he was on horseback. He was small and would never look like the Normans who were noted for their height and their long legs.

‘Let me try the bow, Father,' said Robert.

William handed it to him, knowing full well that he could not bend it. It would teach him a lesson. He was a stripling yet and it would do him good to learn that he was not capable of doing what his father could.

‘Ha, Robin Curthose,' said William, ‘you are not yet of the age and strength to perform such a feat.'

Richard did not ask to try the bow. Wise Richard who was aware of his limitations. A good hunter though – both boys were that. They would not be his sons if they were not.

William took the bow and tried it again and again.

Those about him said: ‘There is only one among us worthy of such a bow.'

Robert scowled. ‘I'll do it,' he said. ‘Not today but I'll do it.'

He galloped off a little sullenly but he was back almost at once.

‘A messenger is coming,' he said. ‘He is riding like the devil.'

William was tense, the bow forgotten, indifferent to the call of the hunt. A messenger. He knew before the man appeared that he came from England.

He had placed his spies about the English Court and knew what was happening there.

The messenger came into sight; he had clearly been riding hard. He came straight to the Duke and gave him a packet.

William broke the seals and as he read the colour flamed into his face; for a moment anger blinded him so that he could not read the page properly.

Edward had died on the fifth day of January and on that very day Earl Harold had been proclaimed King of England. There had been no opposition to this. The next day he had been crowned.

His oaths had been forgotten. By God's Splendour, thought the Duke, he will regret the day he took the crown.

‘The hunt is off,' he cried.

He dug his spurs into his horse and without another word rode back to the castle.

A new hunt was on.

KING HAROLD OF
England sat at the feet of the woman he had loved for many years. Edith Swanneshals was no longer young but hers was a beauty which age could not destroy; there was a calmness about her face and the grace of that beautiful head on that long neck, which had given the name by which she was known, was as remarkable at this time as it had been when she was a young girl.

She had been faithful to Harold for many years and he to her; and now only she could understand the agony of his mind for she knew what had taken place in the hall of Bayeux castle and how at night he would awake from dreams in which the bones he had seen in the coffer rose up and formed themselves into shapes which threatened him.

‘The oath was not binding,' she said comfortingly. ‘You were forced to it. The saints will remember that. What right had William of Normandy to make you swear away your heritage and to deceive you into it, too? You did not know until after you had sworn what the coffer contained.'

‘But I swore,' said Harold. ‘Oh, why did I get shipwrecked on his coast!'

‘'Tis done and naught can change it now,' said Edith. ‘And you are the King. Did not Edward appoint you?'

There was comfort in remembering that death-bed scene. Yes, it was to him that Edward had turned. Poor Edward, was he beset by misgivings? Had he played the saint better than he had the king? He was deeply disturbed; he knew well the troubled state of the kingdom. He knew too that one man and one alone would be accepted as the king, and that man was Harold. Was he remembering the promise he had made to William of Normandy – if such promise there had been? It seemed not, for on the point of death his eyes were on Harold.

Harold said to Edith: ‘In his last moments he raised his hand and pointed to me and he said so that all present could hear: “To thee I commend my kingdom.”'

‘It was his wish and a wise one,' said Edith. ‘Who else is fit to govern?'

‘William of Normandy?' whispered Harold.

‘A Norman! The people will have none of him. Let him rule his own lands. He has a heavy task enough there by all accounts. That should occupy him.'

‘You have never seen William of Normandy, Edith.'

‘I pray God I never shall. Put him from your mind, Harold.'

‘It is not easy to put such a man from one's mind.'

‘I picture him,' said Edith. ‘Tall, strong.'

Harold nodded.

‘Ruthless and cruel. Determined to have his way. Never fear, Harold, we will stand against him.'

‘He will come, I know it.'

‘Let him come. We'll face it. But first you must rest. Come, let me help you to bed.'

He allowed her to take off his boots. He smiled at her. She comforted him. Then fleetingly he thought of the little Adelisa who had so adored him. He had mentioned the fact to Edith that William had made him promise to marry his daughter, but he had never told her what a pleasant little creature she was – a child of some ten or eleven winters. Her innocence had been charming.

He wondered what she had thought when she had heard that he was breaking his vow not only with regard to the throne of England but to her.

By light of day Harold was able to cast off his fears. He was a natural leader who had many times led his armies to victory against great odds. Why should he fear the dead bones of saints and why, as Edith pointed out, should those saints be on the side of William of Normandy who had forced him to swear?

Harold was unanimously acclaimed King by his own people. He was the one they wanted, not some stranger from over the seas.

He gave orders that a grave should be prepared before the altar of St Peter in Westminster Abbey which Edward had just
rebuilt and had consecrated, and arranged for the burial to follow the day of the King's death.

It was the Feast of the Epiphany and at dawn the cortège moved from the palace to the Abbey. The coffin was carried by eight gentlemen of the King's household, followed by priests and Benedictine monks and the procession was led by the new king, Harold.

The bells were tolling and the people came from their houses whispering that this was the passing of a saint.

Harold praying for Edward's soul, wondered whether the news had yet reached William of Normandy.

Harold's first act as soon as the funeral was over was to call the Witan to ask for its support. This was given. He wished his coronation to take place without delay for only when a King was crowned was he recognized as the true sovereign.

Within a few days the ceremony took place, and Harold, the crown of office – a circlet of gold – on his head, walked to the altar where so recently Edward had been buried with royal pomp.